Stahnlei Glitterwing and The Fall of Silvermoon

(This is the very first part of what may turn out to be a rather long backstory of Stahnlei's involvement in the fall of Silvermoon. This bit isn't very long, and not much happens. Oh well.

Also - I borrowed your surname, Shag. If it doesn't fit with your background, then I'll edit it out.)

“You can’t be serious!” Stahnlei Glitterwing rose as he spoke, pushing the hawk-headed greatsword back across the table. “This blade should be for Erizhale, not me.”

Stahnlei’s father’s face remained impassive, his right hand twitching over the hilt of the sword. The last twenty years had not been kind on the man. Losing a brother to the orcs at Blackrock Mountain and a cousin to the missing Alliance Expedition, Saeleon Glitterwing’s family was already broken, scattered and damaged in a way that could not even have been imagined by the virtually immortal elves a century before. His hair had faded from blonde to grey in mere months, the beginnings of faint creases had appeared around his eyes. Now, with the marching dead at the gates of Quel’thalas, he knew that more sacrifices would be made to preserve Quel’thalas and the Sunwell. His fingers tightened around the weapon momentarily, feeling the arthritic crack of age, then pushed it across the polished oak surface.

“Pick it up, Stahnlei. You know that your brother has always done what is needed. It is now your turn.”

“Father!”

Saeleon Glitterwing’s pale blue eyes tightened beneath creased brows as he regarded his youngest son. He nodded to the guard at the door of his study.

“Stahnlei. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I know we paid for those years of tutelage at Dalaran , but now we must do what we must. You’re the only one who is going to be leaving with this sword”

Saeleon watched his youngest son reach forward and lift the sword lightly before him. Forged centuries ago, Glittering Edge was magically counterbalanced in the same style as many of the blades belonging to the more important noble families of Quel’thalas. A weapon of it’s size and weight should have staggered the lightly built elf, but Stahnlei was able to lift it, albeit awkwardly, cradling the sword as if it was a red hot poker, ready to scald him.

He could see that there was much of himself in the boy. Tall and willowy, blessed with the same good looks that had been passed down through the Glitterwing family for generations, Saeleon only wished that, like his elder brother, Stahnlei had inherited more of his good sense. The Glitterwing family had spent generations clawing their way up the Silvermoon hierarchy, and the few tales of what Stahnlei had got up to at Dalaran would be enough to lay that all in ruins, had it not been for the small team of private agents that his father had employed to cover up the worst of his son’s indiscretions. Saeleon Glitterwing almost felt remorse that he was sending his son off to war. Certainly in other times, things might have been different – he was sure his son could be brought around to being a respectable magister eventually – but right now, what Silvermoon needed was warriors. Ranger General Windrunner was dead, the Elfgates had fallen, the Spellbreaker Corps were scattered, and Arthas Menethil’s undead forces were at the gates of Silvermoon. Sunstrider, Kiandarai, Theron, Brightwing, all the great families of Silvermoon were sending their favoured sons out to war. What he did was strictly necessary for the Glitterwing dynasty to profit from this debacle.

Saeleon watched his son turn the sword over in his hands – had he even seen him hold a sword before, let alone swing one? It was a pity, conscripting the boy to what would be almost certain death at the hands of their enemies, and yes, the old elf thought, this probably was remorse he was feeling. But Erizhale, with his savvy head for business, his close friendship with the young prince Sunstrider, his engagement to that pretty young Blazeflower girl was far too valuable to be seen to be making the Glitterwing family’s contribution to the war effort. There was, after all, a strong possibility that the young elf he saw before him, wielding a sword six times his age with the cocky inexpertise of one who had never seen the pitch and swell of battle, the sieges at Blackrock, Stormwind and the Dark Portal, would fall in battle. Saeleon would of course fund a hero’s funeral for the boy, and an extensive public relations campaign should the fates smile and he return alive. In life or death, Stahnlei Glitterwing would be hailed as the Hero who broke the siege of Silvermoon, elevating his family to new levels of wealth and prestige. Perhaps a Glitterwing would someday even receive a seat on the Convocation out of it. But risk his oldest son and heir? Saeleon could not do that. After all, he had his legacy to consider.